Innocence Revisited
by LobstarMonstar
Summary: They've done this before. The contracts, the meeting, the betrayal- they know how it's supposed to go. But the clock's been turned back, their family is alive again, and Cicero and the Listener are the only ones who remember. They need to save them. They need to save her. (Time travel fic. Slight F!DragonbornxCicero. Indefinite hiatus, but might continue based on reviews.)
1. Chapter 1

(FFN please stop eating my line breaks, please)

* * *

First, there is a hard stop, like the Void but louder. Then the Dragonborn takes a deep, gasping breath, great gulps of air, and she is awake.

There's a tightness in her fingers, and it's because they're clenched. Numbingly white-knuckled, white-hot. Wet. A leather grip through leather gloves. The familiar weight of a dagger, pressing up around the hilt, into gasping, gushing flesh.

She sees.

The woman around her blade gurgles and paws at the air, and something in the gauntness of her face reaches into Saffre's gut and twists, as though the assassination is happening the other way around. That's the wrong face, the wrong person and she is in the wrong place—

Grelod the Kind slumps, shudders, and dies. Just like the first time.

Saffre takes a second—only a second—of hesitation, before pulling the blade free and wiping it on the old lady's nightclothes. Then she takes more than a second to peer at the corpse's half-lidded eyes, sunken cheeks, blood-spattered chin. The resemblance isn't just a passing one; she definitely looks like the Night Mother.

The Night Mother, who… who is where? Against a backdrop of smoke… surrounded by explosions, pressed up close, hissing and praying and someone is whimpering in her ear…

But that existence isn't this one. It won't be.

In this one, The Dragonborn has just torn into the soft flesh under Grelod's ribs, lingered only long enough to watch the crone breathe her last, and now she slinks out of the orphanage in the dead of night without looking back.

In this existence, instead of returning to Windhelm for her reward, she is breaking into the stables and clambering atop the first horse she finds, setting out to the northwest and riding all night.

In this existence, she has only just begun the journey she's already finished once, but this time she's going to get it right.

* * *

This time, just like last time, Cicero awakes on the side of the road, nestled into the corner of his wagon and propped against the coffin like a failed sentinel. But this time, he is awaking from an absolutely awful nightmare.

He can't remember most of it, just flashes of explosions and shouting and screaming, breathing in too much smoke and leaking heat out of his left side. However, towards the end there was some hazy bit about resting his head on the warm stretch of neck under his Listener's ear, so. It can't have been all that bad.

Presently, he stretches and says good morning to the coffin, how do you do Mother, sleep well? Cicero certainly hopes so, because of the journey they have ahead of them today. Journey to where? To the sanctuary in Falkreath, the final stand of the Dark Brotherhood.

The same sanctuary where Astrid paid in blood and flesh for daring to defy the will of Sithis, which really doesn't make much sense, considering Cicero has yet to deliver their Maiden to the sanctuary and begin the whole chain of events in the first place. And also considering the sanctuary is nothing but a burnt-out husk.

"Now, Cicero understands your confusion, Mother," he babbles as he prepares the wagon for travel. "Why are we traveling to Falkreath, when we already have a home to the north? Why are we seeking a Listener for you, when you have already so wisely and graciously chosen the lovely Saffre? Why… why are we out here?"

She, naturally, doesn't answer.

"Yes, but, of course you know the answers to all these questions, dear, sweet Mother. And of course, it is not my place to hesitate, only but ONLY if I could… remember."

He contemplates for a long moment, gazing at the approximate resting location of his Mother's hollow face, working something over in his mind.

"No, yes… yes, you're right. Hm. Well, I'm not sure why we were heading THIS way, but… now we are headed to Dawnstar." Confident in this new choice, Cicero takes up the reins and begins to steer them due east. "Cicero so hopes you enjoyed the scenic route, Mother. I know how you like your flowers. You know, there are many flowers up in Dawnstar, especially the wee deadly nightshade—your favorite! You'll love it at our new home."

He whistles an uneasy tune as they set off down the road, not quite feeling up to a full song but needing to fill the silence (always, always needing to fill the silence). He's made it through three verses of the Swamp Spriggan's Lament when the sky splits open with a distinctive screech, a sound he associates with the smell of burning flesh. Out of pure reflex, he has already drawn himself into a crouch atop the wagon, dagger in hand, by the time he locates the dragon.

It's a dark smear in the southern sky, growing larger with every sweep of its massive wings. Its path is unmistakable. It's coming for him, and his wagon, and his horse and his Mother and, and… And Cicero mumbles a very, very mean word he's sure she'll forgive him for under these circumstances.

The dragon approaches, brakes, crests overhead, blots out the rising sun with the girth of its wings, seems to hang weightless in the air for one horrible, terrifying second,

Then it comes crashing down.

The shock of it very nearly topples the wagon like a child's toy, and between the horse screaming and the ground shaking Cicero is quite sure he'll never be able to hear again. He's knocked onto his back, then is back up and ready to fight even if he can't quite see straight yet. He thinks he chipped a tooth.

But then the dragon doesn't unleash hellish breath and fry him to a crisp, doesn't open its great mouth and gobble down the horse in one bite. Instead, it lowers its head and allows Saffre to slide down off its back, and then retreats several steps without looking up.

Saffre calls something that might be Cicero's name, and everything is momentarily okay even though it definitely isn't.

They embrace in the time it takes to regain their bearings. Frantic and clumsy and relieved, so so relieved. The dragon flies off and they hardly notice, the three of them, the Keeper, the Listener, and the corpse. They are the only ones who know, but they are together now.

* * *

Saffre explains to the best of her ability, to the best of her understanding. She hasn't slept, hasn't done anything but ride for the past 10 hours—first a horse, and then when the horse became lame a dragon (whom she paid with a horse). She is hungry and haggard and has bits of ice clung to her armor from flying over Hrothgar, but she is here and she somewhat knows what's going on.

Once upon a time.

Saffre stole a contract out from under the Dark Brotherhood and they hunted her, found her, revived her as part of their family. Once upon a time, she helped a miserable merryman with a broken wagon wheel find his way home, which happened to be hers too. Once upon this time, she got betrayed, forgave, assassinated an emperor and carved another name for herself. Once, everything went wrong.

She coaxes the memories out of him like coaxing flame from kindling: first, a little at a time, then catching all at once, hazy and cloying and altogether too hot. They relive his nightmare together. An ambush. Precisely planned, heavily funded. Then, the explosions—well-placed, expertly timed. Then running. Running through the labyrinth that was their home, the last ones to live and the only ones to escape. A fatal wound oozing life down Cicero's left side, probably spilling an organ or two, but he's not looking.

A plea, "Go on, I'll hold them off," and a command, "Come with me." Then, Saffre shutting the coffin doors around them, the three of them pressed together with no air, but it doesn't matter because there's no air anywhere, only smoke. Cicero, cold and clammy, held up by Saffre and the wall; The Night Mother, stiff and silent as explosions rock her resting place; Saffre, hissing something in his ear like "Pray, pray with me, damn it PRAY," and then just a bunch of sounds and colors and probably a lot of pain.

And now they are back here, where and when it began. Their home is an abandoned shell, their family large but unknowing. They have nothing but each other and the coffin, and they gather by its feet to plan.

* * *

"Astrid is coming for me, right now," Saffre tells him. "It's vital, absolutely vital, that we let her capture me."

Cicero hisses, eyes darting to the horizon as though he'll catch Astrid in broad-daylight approach.

"Yes, I know. But you tolerated her once, and you can do it again."

"But," he splutters, "AFTER you've infiltrated that—" his voice drops dangerously low and curiously even, "—that blaspheming poser's mockery of a family—then, we can slice her to ribbons before she betrays you! …Right?"

Saffre levels him with a despairing look, and he shrinks into himself as though trying to disappear, as though even here and now the shadows will welcome him. But the sun is climbing overhead, and the shadows belong to her as much as they do to him.

She isn't mad, not really, just tired.

They sit together on the side of the wagon, eating dried strips of horker meat and sharing a bottle of tepid ale under the Second Seed sun. "They're not our family, not yet," Saffre explains, "we must gain their trust. Remember, they think our ways died out long ago. If we tried to instate our Matron's control now—"

"Oh, but they would listen! They would only need to look upon her face, to hear from your mouth her wise, wise words, and surely any child of the Darkness would KNOW—"

"You are wrong, Cicero. We could not convince everyone."

"Even better! We may weed out the blasphemers, those disloyal and unworthy of serving her, and—!"

"This is not your decision to make, Cicero!" she snaps, and he knows he has stepped too far, too foolish, too comfortable by her side and he's forgotten himself.

He pushes off the seat of the wagon and, without stopping, falls directly into a bow. It's a familiar gesture, written into his bones and muscles and the precise tilt of his head, but it's also one he hasn't made recently, so he stumbles. Clumsy, clumsy, not deferential enough. Fit for flogging.

"Deepest apologies, Listener! Who, oh who, is humble Cicero to question? Please pay the ramblings of a madman no mind, only give out more orders—orders which I shall follow to the letter, because they are your will and therefore the will of the Night Mother, and if that will wishes I should be punished, please let it be done without holding back—"

"Stand, jester." Saffre says quietly. He would've missed it to his babbling, if listening to her wasn't his job (even if he fails where Listening is concerned). And so Cicero stands, quickly and silently, ready for the reprimand he, of course, rightly deserves for having doubted, for having questioned, foolish, stupid STUPID,

But Saffre is just sad. Deflated. Was it he who deepened the bags under her eyes, who drained the color from her face and hair? Was it his words that reached into her chest and pulled the life right out of her? Gods, that he should pay for this, that he could do anything at all to fix her!

Then the moment is over; she sits up straighter and sets her mouth in a hard line. "We must give our family time. It was not that long ago I, too, doubted—I doubted you, in our own home! It is not their fault; they are under another influence, but at their core they are still ours—"

"The influence of that Astrid," Cicero clarifies as innocently as possible. And he's sure he's done it now, at any moment the Listener will bury a knife deep in his ribs because he can't keep his mouth shut, and of course he'll have deserved it, for letting his hatred of that woman cloud his judgement, hatred of that horrible, crispy, crispy woman and her pet dog (Sithis help him Cicero can still feel the scar left over by that mangy mutt even if it hasn't actually happened yet) and it just sets his blood to a boil, the whole idea of having to serve her again.

But Cicero is two for two, because the Listener recoils as though physically struck, and if he makes her look this sad even one more time he swears he's going to bury the knife in his ribs his damn self, of course he'll dig his own grave first to save them the trouble, and possibly find someone else to replace him too, someone who knows Mother's favorite flowers and exactly the right amount of oil to use and precisely the way the Listener likes her hair brushed after a long day and, and… and how to keep their mouth shut when it comes to things they don't fully understand. Yes, that sounds like a sizeable improvement.

When Saffre speaks, it comes out in a whisper. "Don't hurt her." Then louder, "I command it," and it sounds more like a plea but either one is good enough for Cicero. He begins, again, to bow at the waist, before remembering she told him to stand, so he just nods.

"As you wish, Listener."

They sit and finish their meal, silent as the grave.

* * *

Astrid arrives that night.

While Cicero and Saffre have resolved to "allow" capture, it's hardly necessary. Astrid is good at what she does. Tracking her target was not easy, especially where a dragon was involved, but her sources were good as far as location is concerned. They had, however, mentioned something about a traveling companion, but the Dragonborn is alone in her room when Astrid arrives.

She did bring two sleeping poisons, though. Just in case.

* * *

Saffre finally manages to shake off Babette's potion sometime in the early morning. She thought she'd be prepared, thought that after all this time— but seeing Astrid pains her, almost physically, and she'd gladly slip right back into the potion's embrace if she didn't have a job to do.

She slits three throats, there in the abandoned shack. Saffre isn't sure how to feel about Astrid's praise, shouldn't enjoy it but also shouldn't suddenly feel sick to her stomach. They promise to meet on the outskirts of Falkreath, using a passphrase that is ready on Saffre's tongue like it's risen from deep within.

Astrid is about to leave, to pull the same disappearing act as last time, to be over the horizon before the sun is fully risen. But when she angles Shadowmere southward and kicks, the horse doesn't move. It just looks back, legs locked and ears at attention. It watches Saffre.

"Shadowmere, it's time to leave," Astrid commands. The horse swivels one ear toward her, but doesn't move otherwise. That is, until Saffre gives it just the faintest nod, the smallest token—go, listen to her.

With her permission, Shadowmere takes off.

* * *

Saffre takes a carriage south. Bogs and marshes give way to sprawling farmland, cows dotting the landscape like architecture and windmills dotting the horizon like cattle.

The next day, she's on schedule to make it to their rendezvous point by noon, but doesn't get that far before running into him.

He's hauled over to the side of the road, sitting on the lopsided wagon and looking rather sheepish.

"Your wheel broke," she says when she walks up.

Cicero worries his hat between his hands, not meeting her eyes. "It's an easy mistake to make! Twice."

Saffre laughs, he laughs with her, and they sit together for a while.

"After I persuade the farmer to help," she tells him, "I'm going to continue to the sanctuary. You can keep traveling the way you did before."

"You mean, Cicero has to get lost again?"

"Just take the same amount of time. It won't do for you to arrive before I've gained their trust. And this time, do try to be a bit more… civil."

"Cicero is sure he doesn't know what you mea—"

"Don't stab anyone."

Cicero tuts as though accepting a great burden, but nevertheless says, "As you wish, Listener," with a tone reserved for only the most onerous of tasks.

Satisfied for now, Saffre sets off to fetch help.


	2. Chapter 2

The Pine Forest welcomes Saffre like an old friend. The needles on the ground are still soft; they whisper instead of betraying her. The shadows are trunk cut-outs of orange beams. Falling like honey on wet bark.

She never learned who it was that first enchanted their magic doors. Old magic bound in old blood. She doesn't know whose voice it is she reaches out to, reciting the obedient call-and-answer. It's a voice she's only ever known as _Brother_.

"What is the music of life?" it rattles into her ear, like dust on gauze wrappings.

She leans on the door as she would a lover. She whispers where its ear would be.

"Welcome home," it hisses back, curling at the edges.

And here, after all this time, comes the great irony of it all. That even though everything, _everything_ , has changed, that Saffre should slink through the door this time in the same exact manner she did the first time. All those years ago.

That her heart should be hammering. That she should feel as though she's trespassing somewhere she shouldn't.

Astrid is waiting for her in the foyer.

Meeting Astrid in the abandoned shack had been the first layer of torment. But even then, Astrid's face had been covered, and Saffre could only scrabble for purchase on the smooth, lilting expanse of her voice.

But Astrid's voice hadn't ever really left Saffre. It clung to the creases of her memories like smoke, resurfacing in dreams more often than even Saffre probably realized. Astrid's face, on the other hand…

It only ever showed up in nightmares, in shades of charcoal and cinder.

And now Saffre must see her as she was before. As she is. Flesh and blood and devastatingly alive.

"At last," Astrid says. She's smiling. "I hope you found the place all right."

"Like coming home," Saffre tells her.

Astrid beams. "I couldn't have said it better myself."

Astrid shows Saffre inside. Where anyone else might use a grand sweep of their arms, to invite their newcomer to gaze upon the cavern in all its glory, Astrid instead offers only an economical wave of her fingers. As if to dare Saffre to take anything for granted.

It's not a humble choice. It's a generous one. _This is our home, and it can be yours too_.

The sounds and sights are already a heady dose of agony, especially in such rapid succession—Saffre would take an evening in their old torture room any day, over this—but then she's hit with the smells all at once.

Smells have the cruel power to pull one out of the present, across time and space, and drop them anywhere. A smell will stir one's memory faster than anything else. And the Sanctuary, as it is, hits Saffre with a fresh wave of nostalgia so potent she wants to collapse and cry.

The oil casks around Arbjorn's forge. The musky moss around the waterfall. The sudden, unexpected sweetness of Gabriella's perfume. These all conspire to take Saffre out at the knees, more surely and efficiently than any assassin could ever hope.

How fitting, though, that the room is full of assassins.

* * *

Astrid eventually takes pity on her new protégé.

"The new blood is looking a little pale, there," Festus remarks, digging something out of his ear. "You sure she's up to this?"

Astrid doesn't waver. "I think you'll be surprised by what she can do, Festus. But it's been a long day for everyone. I think I should show her to her room."

"Astrid is right," Babette agrees magnanimously. "From what I've heard, Saffre has a lot to show us. I'm sure she'll be ready for the slaughter, after some rest." Babette looks up and gives Saffre a kind, fanged smile.

For a brief moment, Saffre sees Babette's face aghast—consumed in flames, bloody screams echoing off stone—

Then the moment blinks away, and Babette's still sitting there smiling.

Saffre shakes herself. "Quite right. You'll have to forgive me. Today has not been kind. I'll be more myself tomorrow."

Arnbjorn is picking away at his nails using a crooked knife. "Didn't realize we cut into her naptime," he tells the the room at large. "I'll bet she runs, as soon as we take our eyes off her."

"I'd bet you'd chase me down, and tear me open," Saffre counters coolly. She knows exactly what the scars would look like.

"Oh good," Arnbjorn says, "at least you're not stupid."

Nazir is laughing. "No, I think she's got you pretty nailed down."

* * *

The shrouded armor of the Brotherhood feels brand new on her skin. Inasmuch, it feels wrong. It hasn't been broken in for use yet. The fabric on her fingertips is too thick to do anything with; the creases in the shoulders too stiff for full movement. The rivets of her boots creak when she walks.

"It looks good on you," Gabriella says immediately. She gestures to her neck. "I can take in the cowl, for you. It's made for someone with a bit more of hair."

Saffre agrees, because she did the first time.

But as Gabriella fusses with the pins, she asks something unfamiliar. She asks, "Do you do any divining?"

Saffre doesn't.

Gabriella _tuts_ and pulls a needle out of her hood. It's a sewing needle, not the deadly kind. "I've been trying to get a read on you all night, but my cards keep getting confused."

"Does that happen a lot?" Saffre asks.

"Not exactly. I was hoping we could sit down and do a proper reading."

The dread must be apparent on Saffre's face, because Gabriella gives her a reassuring squeeze on the arm.

"Oh no, don't worry. I know how you Nords are about magic. I won't do anything to you. You just drink some tea and I look at the leaves, then I flip some cards and throw some sticks on the ground. It just works better with you nearby."

Saffre trains her face into something resembling innocent skepticism. "What if it says something bad?"

"Oh, don't worry about that." Gabriella is much too airy for what she says next. She says, "I've already seen how everybody here is going to die." Then she tucks her hair back and picks out some dark thread.

Any excuse Saffre makes will sound, well, like an excuse. So she swallows and says, "Okay, if you'd like."

* * *

Two hours pass like pulling teeth.

Nazir walks in and stops abruptly. "Gabriella. My dear sister. If you look at it any more intensely, it's going to burst into flames."

"I don't understand it," she hisses, picking up and examining four teacups in rapid succession. None of them have the desired contents. "How could it have _changed_?"

"That's all the future does, is change." Nazir doesn't seem too worried. "Can I move these sticks?"

"No, step over, I'm not done drawing them."

Nazir steps over. He is holding a sheet of paper. "Right. Saffre. Are you ready for your first contracts? Well, your first _real_ contracts. You don't have to steal them anymore."

Saffre, naturally, is ready. She is also ready because she has drunk two pots of tea. But she has sat still, even as Gabriella pulled one gruesome prediction after another, because absconding at any juncture would have been suspicious.

"Wait," Gabriella calls, shuffling her deck together one last time. "Before you go, could you pull one last clarity card? It will give me a focus point, to read everything else."

Saffre holds the contracts in one hand and flips the card with the other, like turning the page of a book.

They all look at it.

"Hm. I'm not sure if that's helpful," Gabriella says.

"I don't know what that card means," Nazir says, "but I hate it."

Saffre lets out an uneasy laugh, like cold water dribbling down her front. "The Jester."

And in this sanctuary full of family and friends, she is utterly alone.


	3. Chapter 3

Saffre can't remember ever finishing a job so quickly, so clinically, as she does now.

Seeing as she's already killed these people once, she sees no reason to linger. Every moment she spends away from home is another moment something could go wrong, and another moment she's not setting things right.

Cicero is there, naturally, when she gets back. She told him to be. Moreover, he has not stabbed anyone, which is also in direct compliance with her orders. Everything seems to be going on track.

And Cicero is… as he ever was. Where Saffre was paralyzed with nostalgia, Cicero has no apparent problem reprising his role as the dutiful, sycophantic Keeper. He still _thank you'_ s and _of course_ 's at the right queues; still capitulates to Astrid's commands. But Saffre can see it in his eyes, the moment between line deliveries. The contempt.

The instant nobody's looking, Cicero glares vitriol at Arnbjorn's back. Then he raises one hand to his belt. Saffre is sure, in that moment, that Cicero is going to renege on the "no stabbing" edict, and steps forward to say something. But instead, Cicero just clutches at his side, as though recalling past wounds.

Then he catches Saffre looking, straightens, and turns on his heel to tend to their Mother's box.

Saffre lets out a silent, thankful breath.

* * *

She then makes record time traveling first to Markarth, then to Windhelm, and back to Falkreath. The job that originally took seven days, she finishes in four.

As such, things go a bit differently.

Originally, by the time Saffre returned, Astrid had been fully paranoid of Cicero's treachery. As of yet, it is only a budding problem. As such, Astrid is not waiting when Saffre arrives. She does not have plans to eavesdrop. So, they have time.

Saffre makes what she hopes is reasonable haste to the Night Mother's chamber. Cicero is already there. They close the chamber doors and crowd in front of the coffin like it's story time.

Cicero pulls open the coffin. The Night Mother is there, resplendent in her new coat of oils, awfully gray in the torch light. She is as she has been for many, many years.

Saffre bows. Cicero bows lower.

"Mother," Saffre starts. Her voice cracks inappropriately. She grits her teeth.

Now, of all times, she doesn't know what to say. She was sure everything would sort itself out at this point.

Cicero senses her hesitation. He fills the silence (always, always has to fill the silence). "M-Mother! She is here now, as I said! And, as I told you, we both remember a… a very different set of events happening, and we are certain that this is all your will, and-and the will of the Father, and, we eagerly await your next instructions, that you may convey to our Listener. Please."

Saffre nods dumbly, first at their Matron, then sideways at Cicero himself. She waits one more beat before her voice is ready. "It's as he said, Mother." Is all she manages at first. But Cicero nods, first at the Mother, then at her—a universally comforting gesture—and she continues.

"It is as though we have lived part of this life already. We can recall the next few years as though they already happened. In our memory, we were attacked, and we prayed to you for help. It was our understanding that time had somehow reversed, yet with our memories intact. We hoped upon meeting you, we would find further guidance." Then, she adds, "…if that is your will."

Her words fall into the room flatly, without echo. Cicero breathes next to her.

And, even after waiting, even after they were so, so patient, the Night Mother does not speak.

Cicero looks between the two of them, suppressing the urge to fidget. Fidgeting makes noise, and Saffre must Listen.

Saffre is very pale. She tries again. "It… was our assumption that this situation… came about through otherworldly machinations. That our Father had had some part in it—that we were exacting his will. P-perhaps… and please forgive my guessing, Mother… perhaps you also do not remember, as many others do not. We are your faithful. Your Keeper and Listener."

Cicero watches Saffre's face for any change. There is none. He tries his luck next. "M…other? Are you—" he has to quash an inappropriate giggle. "Are you playing a joke on poor Saffre and Cicero? Saffre is here, and ready to Listen. She is, the, uh. Your. Listener. The one you chose after… _so many_ years." Panic wells up under his skin like a parasite. "She spoke the Binding Words! She… she is the one you chose!" He bites the insides of his lips, hard, so he doesn't burble with hysterics.

Saffre puts a hand on his shoulder. He stills as much as he can.

"It's… okay," she says to the corpse, to Cicero, and to herself. "If our Mother cannot, or will not, speak now, we will carry on as before. Until someone else can hear the words. Just as we did before. Correct?"

Cicero looks as though he's been smacked. "But… the Listener, is the Listener, until _death_." He sighs _death_ like a lover's name—the briefest indulgence—then again, feverish, but slower: "No Listener has ever gotten… un-chosen."

"Maybe that is why time had to be turned back," Saffre wonders aloud, though the words make her cheeks burn. "I'm sure all will be rectified. We must just… trust her. Trust our Mother, Cicero."

Cicero swallows. "Yes. Of course. Listener."

She pauses, takes a breath, then sets about closing the coffin doors. As little as she thinks she deserves the title, there is a dizzying sort of validation hearing him call her _Listener_ still. Proof that someone else, in this world, acknowledges their past few years together. Proof that she's not, well…

Proof that she's not mad.

She gazes once more upon the Night Mother's face before the doors are shut. Saffre knows the price for listening too hard for something that may not come.

But, by Sithis, she'll still do it. What other choice does she have?

* * *

The next problem, then, is that Astrid never comes to Saffre for help.

They wait, of course. Saffre assures Cicero that it's necessary. Only once Astrid has put her trust in Saffre can they make their move. Only once Astrid gives them the opening.

But Astrid does not. Saffre has met all the requisites. She has become part of the family. She has traded spells with Festus. She has harvested Lis's eggs. She's gone fishing with Veezara. Even Arnbjorn has a grudging, punchy respect for her after enough sparring. Saffre has been the model of a faithful initiate.

Which, actually, does not account for how dirty she feels for all of it. It's not logical. She's doing this for all of them, for the family, for their Mother. Surely she shouldn't feel as though she's betraying them.

Surely she should be able to swallow her excitement when Astrid corners her one day.

Saffre adopts a mask of innocence. Astrid leans in. They are within breathing distance. Saffre yearns to hug her.

Astrid says, "Have you heard Cicero… talking to someone?"

"Besides himself?" Saffre asks, ironically beside herself with relief.

Astrid scowls. "Not like that. Muttering to someone. Hushed, and frantic. Almost… treacherously."

Saffre tries her best to look concerned. "What should we do?" she asks, leaning in too.

Astrid looks at her through narrowed eyes. Then, like letting go of a rope, she says, "Nothing."

"Nothing?" Saffre repeats.

"Don't worry about it," Astrid says. Something has changed in her posture. She is now leaning away. Walking away. "I'm sure it will sort itself out."

Saffre is left standing alone in the hallway, like a woman lost at sea.

* * *

That night, she finds Cicero in the Night Mother's chamber. She always finds him there. This time, she doesn't say a word until they are inside and both doors are shut.

Then, she grabs him by the elbow and whispers. "Cicero, something has gone wrong."

To his credit, he does not look panicked at all. He just sighs, as though reaching a forgone conclusion. "Has Cicero failed once again?" He puts down the flowers he's holding. He's always bringing in flowers, nowadays—it's all he's good for.

Saffre turns him to face her. "No. I'm talking about something else."

He meets her with dead eyes. "Oh? You're talking. Good. Perhaps someone in this Sanctuary can Listen."

She sets her jaw, a furious blush of shame working its way up her neck. Cicero watches it with reckless fascination. "You forget yourself, _Keeper_."

He sighs with great effort. "You're right." Then, almost ceremonially, he proffers his cheek. "It would be proper to punish me, yes?" _Punish_ is one of his favorite words, yet it falls from his mouth flatly this time. "Perhaps our Father would enjoy it. I'd like to think I'm still good for that, at least."

Saffre doesn't slap him, but he certainly tenses up as though anticipating—as though _craving_ it. Instead, she just plops her hand against his face, like an actual strike would be too much effort. He winces. Then opens his eyes to look at her.

She's all business, just for a moment. "Amaund Motierre will be waiting." Her tone commands he listen, and he does, straightening. "We cannot afford to wait any longer. If they are not ready to hear Mother's words, then that is their problem."

Cicero lights up, just a little bit. He loves words like this, like "their problem," "their fault," "their funeral." It's all very vindicating. Lightly, as though handling flowers, he brushes his fingers against the back of her hand, still on his face. "Are we going to spread the word of our Unholy Matron?" he asks quietly, reverently.

Her eyes dance with torchlight. "We are going to see her will be done. You and me."

Cicero doesn't bother to find the words just yet—he just laughs, jumping in place—he grabs her hand off his cheek and presses a kiss to her palm, humming, bubbling with delight. With renewed vigor, he marvels: "Listener and Keeper! Working together once more!"

Saffre, unable to help herself, laughs too, if only because madness and mirth are both contagious. She grips his fingers with the same hand, placating, trying to ground him. "Yes! Yes. Okay, shh, someone will hear you—we need to talk to Astrid."

Cicero stops hopping so he can answer, coy and sly and Cicero again. But as he opens his mouth, the Night Mother's coffin swings open.

"What _exactly_ do you need to talk to me about?" Astrid demands, stepping out.

Saffre drops Cicero's hand and steps away from him.

Cicero gapes.

Astrid waits.

Saffre raises a hand. "Astrid, you—"

" _Treacherous defiler_!" Cicero shrieks, frozen to the spot. There is a long moment where he gathers his insults, like putting ducks in a row, before he lays in. "How dare you— _low_ and _filthy—_ debase the resting place of our Unholy Matron, our Mistress of the Void—our _Mother_ —with your rank, foul, _crispy,_ ungrateful body, in her very coffin—here, just under her most faithful servants' _noses_ —with intentions to betray, conspire, _defile_ —!"

Astrid steps forward, teeth bared. "You will watch your tongue here, you _snake_! You are the one conspiring against _my_ family in _my_ home; it doesn't matter if you have some corpse with you—!"

Saffre steps forward before this can escalate any further. She grabs Cicero by the shoulders and pulls him, physically, away. In retrospect, it's a miracle Cicero didn't pull a knife on Saffre for the same stunt. And Cicero doesn't need a reason to stab Astrid—he's been wanting to do it for years. This would not end well.

"Cicero, I know, please," she hisses, stiff-arming him behind her. Then she whirls and offers her hands to Astrid. Placating. "We'd like to talk."

"You think I have something to discuss with him?" Astrid hollers. She gestures with her knife. Saffre didn't even see her draw it.

"No, not him—you're talking to me," Saffre tries, while Cicero attempts to dart around from behind.

"You! You're conspiring with him!" At least Astrid's gestures look more like pointing than stabbing. More like she's talking, and happens to be holding a knife, than that she's actually preparing to use it. "I knew it was you! Who else would he be talking to in here?"

Cicero points like she's the slowest child ever to threaten him with a knife. "Um...! My Mother!"

Saffre makes the split-second judgment that Astrid is not going to stab her. As far as risks go, it's a dizzying one, but what are the chances Astrid would betray her _twice_? Saffre gulps and, very deliberately, turns around.

She places one hand on each of Cicero's shoulders. "Hey," she growls. His hand is on his dagger hilt. "Hey," Saffre repeats. Cicero looks at her. "Calm down. That's an order."

Cicero snarls, thoroughly unhappy about it, but he stands down.

Astrid looks at Saffre's back, and slowly lowers her weapon too. "An 'order'?" she repeats. "Since when does he take orders from you? I am the leader of this family!" She grits her teeth, trying to fit their treachery onto a timeline. "What are you? Co-conspirators? Lovers?"

Cicero _tuts_ as though he could poison her by voice alone. "Well that would be none of your business, hmm?"

Saffre gives him a look. He presses his lips together innocently. _I'll behave_. Again, Saffre turns toward Astrid.

Neither woman moves for a long moment.

Astrid inclines her head. "Go ahead," she croons, "say your piece."

Saffre has rehearsed this a few times in her head. Astrid never looked so hurt those times. "Astrid," she says, forcing her voice even. "My sister. Please hear what I have to say and trust that I speak the truth."

It's silent for an agonizing moment. Saffre imagines that Astrid said, "Yes, go on."

"Please know it was never my intention to conspire, or to keep things from you—I just didn't believe it was the right time to say. I believe the right time is now. The Night Mother has spoken to me."

"Impossible," Astrid spits on rote. "The Night Mother only speaks to the Listener."

"That is correct," Saffre says magnanimously. "I am the Listener. I have heard and recited the binding words to Cicero, and he has confirmed it. She has chosen me."

Astrid doesn't say anything.

"I do not wish to take your family, or your command. But when the Night Mother speaks, I must listen. I cannot ignore the mission she has set out for us. It is vital to our family's continuance. She has told me of a very important client we are to meet. To…" Saffre struggles to remember the very words spoken to her, all those years ago. "To ignore the explicit will of our Matron would be madness. And I think we can both agree that Cicero has enough madness for us all."

She was hoping for a laugh, or even a nod, but Astrid just stands there, brows furrowing. Knife forgotten in her hand.

Saffre delves through her memories for guidance. _What would Astrid want to do next_? "If you need some time to think about it, that's okay. We don't have to tell anyone else yet. But somebody needs to go meet a man named Amaund Motierre in Volunruud. You can decide who. Sithis has spoken."

She tries to look as sorry as she can, while maintaining some degree of authority. And she feels this is a good note to end on, so she steps back into line beside Cicero.

Capitulation feels wrong, but so does rebelling against Astrid in any capacity. It's a deeply-ingrained directive that Saffre has never had to break. Even when she killed Astrid in the timeline-that-wouldn't-be, it had only been orders. She really had remained loyal to the end.

This is the timeline where she won't. Obedience isn't an option.

Astrid seems to sense this. She knows something has shifted, and knows her next decision will change the dynamic of her family forever.

And Astrid, through-and-through, is a deeply loving, trusting person. Saffre could tell you this. Any member of the Brotherhood could tell you this. The agents who betrayed her trust and destroyed her family could tell you this.

Astrid is loyal to a fault. It's with this in mind that she doesn't even look at the knife in her hand, at the Night Mother, at Cicero. She looks straight at Saffre, deep down into her core, like she would be able to find her own doom spelled out there.

"If you have to," she says, "then go."

Then she tucks her knife away and walks out of the room before the tears can fall.


	4. Chapter 4

(A/N: shortest chapter so far, can't decide where to go from here, please send help)

* * *

The most difficult part of re-entering the Brotherhood has been pretending not to know more than she should.

This imperative disappears when Saffre meets Motierre.

The man wants to get down to business, which Saffre appreciates a million times more than she did last time. But it is so, _so_ easy to knock him off balance.

When he hands her the amulet, Saffre makes sure to look right at him. "The Elder Council," she ponders.

"Mmmyes, well," he squirms, jaw set around his noble accent, "we all have our reasons. I'm sure it matters little to you."

"Indeed," Saffre agrees. It didn't matter then, and it doesn't matter now. What matters is that she gets back home and doesn't find it in a state of turmoil.

Thankfully, smoke is not billowing from the doorway on her arrival, Festus is not staked to a tree with arrows, and Veezara is not bleeding. In other words, things are much better than they could be and have been.

Still, it is not pleasant when she is accosted by Arnbjorn in the entryway. Saffre almost runs right into him. She would've bounced off like hitting a wall. Instead, she rights herself and looks up into his eyes, trying to look more guiltless than she feels. He is not happy. Then again, he never is.

Saffre doesn't say anything. She waits for him to speak.

"I don't know what you're doing," he grumbles. He smells like fur and cinders. "I don't know anything about this 'Listening' business. Frankly, I don't care. You made Astrid cry. That's not something I just let happen."

Saffre could probably take him. She doesn't want to.

"Have you spoken to her?" she asks levelly.

Arnbjorn growls. He is not a talking type of person. He knows Saffre knows this.

"You're on thin ice, flank steak." He crosses his beefy arms, bumping her chest in the process. She tries not to stagger. "If you do anything to hurt this family… it'll be nothing compared to what I do to you."

Saffre reflects that, of everyone she once lost, she missed Arnbjorn about as much as she'd miss a festering limb. On principle, she would always _hush_ Cicero when he'd go on about the "mangy mutt," when the dog-related insults would spew from his mouth and he would poke and prod at the scar on his side 'til the skin was red and angry. Saffre would stand up for every member of the Brotherhood, but Arnbjorn more than anyone (he was the worst offender, in Cicero's book).

In this moment, though, Saffre can't conceive of why she would bother.

Her voice is pure ice— _fo krah din_ —when she answers. "I understand. But I think you underestimate the strength of our family. Do try to have a little more faith in Astrid, after this."

She pushes past him and into the foyer. He doesn't stop her.

She's trying to save him, by Sithis. There's no way he could know this. There's no way any of them could know. But if they would just _listen_ in the first place—

On the way in, she notices the framed scroll of The Tenets. It's indecipherable. She stops and spends a full minute scraping the dust off, wondering if there's a better spot to hang it up. Maybe on the front door, so everyone has to see it as they leave. Maybe she'll make copies and put them above everyone's beds.

Anyway, Arnbjorn's interlocution seems to have been the worst of it. When she gets inside, no one else acts too upset with her, or cares very much at all. It's possible they haven't heard.

But then, on the complete opposite end of the spectrum from Arnbjorn, Cicero is beside himself with delight.

"Yoo-hoo! Oh Listener!" he calls as soon as he sees her.

Saffre bites down on her tongue.

Cicero continues, heedless. "Listener," he repeats loudly, as though it's another of his favorite words. "Have you returned from the job Mother gave you? The important job she gave directly to you specifically? Delivered right into your head? Hmm?" With every question mark, his voice gets a little higher, until he's speaking in falsetto. Everyone's looking. "Do you have orders to be followed, pursuant to the will of Sithis, the refusal of which would certainly be an invocation of….."

He leans in.

"….punishment?"

Saffre knows exactly how his throat would feel between her hands. She knows exactly how much pressure it would take to bruise, to pop all the little blood vessels in his eyes, but not to kill. She knows at least three people in this Sanctuary would cheer her on.

Saffre weighs her options. It would not be wise to act like she doesn't know what he's talking about. It would also not be wise to agree with him. Violence is looking like a better option by the moment.

Finally, she stares him down. "I did as I was told," she says. If he catches the rage underpinning her diplomacy, he doesn't acknowledge it. Or it just makes him smile wider.

"Of course you did." If he was any more smug, his nose would grow. "As well anyone should! Cicero knows a thing or two about doing as he's told."

 _Then act like it_ , is what Saffre wants to say. But instead, she looks past him, and past all the eyes around the room—who's even home? Babette, Nazir, Festus, Veezara, Gabriella—good gods, everyone's here. Except, of course.

"Speaking of following orders…" Might as well stand by diplomacy. "Is Astrid home?"

In Saffre's peripheral vision, Cicero's face sours. By the time she looks back, he's neutral again.

He doesn't answer. The question fills the room.

It's Babette who breaks the silence. "She is." Then, "Did Motierre say anything interesting?"

Ah. So they know some things.

Saffre decides that misdirection will get her into more trouble than the truth, and playing dumb would be disastrous. "Mm-hm," she says after a slightly-too-long beat. Then she remembers what big news this is supposed to be for everyone. "Haha. 'Interesting' is a mild way of putting it."

They wait. Festus leans forward in his chair and paddles one hand in the air to say _then get on with it_.

"Amaund Motierre has contracted us to eliminate one of his political adversaries. I'm sure you've heard of the man in question. Emperor Titus Mede II."

"I'm sorry," Nazir coughs, "what?"

"He has gathered all the intelligence and outlined a plan. I'm bringing it to Astrid for approval." Saffre pulls out the letter and holds it up.

"By Sithis," Nazir marvels, "you're serious."

"Of course she's serious," Festus snaps, "she's the _Listener_ now." He says it sarcastically, but he watches Saffre for a reaction.

She's saved having to think of one when Astrid appears. Saffre is still holding the letter aloft, and for some reason she freezes as though caught. Astrid props herself on the doorframe.

"The emperor?" Astrid purrs.

Saffre exhales.

This is familiar. This is what happened last time. She nods, maybe too vigorously. "Do you think we can do it?"

Astrid straightens and makes a grabby hand at the paper. "Let me see that."


End file.
